Evenings: His Church Calling

The sound burrs in my head 
like a racket of angry birds 
swirling from the sky. 
He’s gone again; 
how many times must I mow the lawn 
mulling that same pit in my mouth, 
leaning into the green that grows too fast? 

He has missed too many mowings. 

Only after the sun has fondled the horizon, 
and the mower has eaten away 
at everything green 
and splintered a bone hidden near soft roots, 
will he step home onto gray pavement 
with the darkness growing in blades 
around the moon.